


By the Grace of God

by Akiko_Natsuko



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Episode: s01e09 Knight Takes Queen, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Missions Gone Wrong, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26382448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: The odds had been stacked against them from the moment the Queen was attacked, and the high walls of the Convent and the help of the Nuns could only do so much when time and numbers were against them.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Currently rewatching the series, and this popped into my head while watching ep. 9.
> 
> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/rYuEH6EAY2).

Athos had known from the beginning that they would be lucky to come out of this unscathed, the walls and height of the Covenant and the Nuns’ assistance had evened the odds more than he could have thought possible when they’d first spotted it amongst the trees. But they were still just two men, and greater numbers were always going to win out, for all that they had forced their attackers to pay a heavy price to get this far. The cellar was a perfect place for a last defence, but the space is narrow, and while that is perfect for holding back the first few who make it through, it’s not so good when the shots start flying. He manages to block the first shot, twisting one of his opponents around in front of him to take it in his stead. Then he’s moving, entirely focused on reaching the narrow entranceway and the poor excuse for a barricade that Aramis has dropped across it while he’s distracted.

He is two steps away from it when more shots ring out, and he flinches to the side as one clips the wall, and a piece of rock strikes his cheek, drawing blood, dust blinding him for a second. Then he’s throwing himself forward, diving across the barricades and just as he curls into the leap, ready to roll to stop himself colliding with the far wall of the cellar he feels the searing pain in his side. He’s been shot enough times to recognise the source of the pain, but it doesn’t make it any easier to stifle a cry, and he can’t stop to take care of it, forcing himself back to his feet and moving into cover at the side of the door. The movement hurts, and his vision goes white for a brief moment, and he shakes his head to clear it, pressing himself back into the wall and accepting the pistol that’s thrust into his hand.

There’s no time to check his side, and he doesn’t want to draw attention to it, knowing it will just worry the others, especially as there is nothing, they can do about it now. All, he can do is clamp his arm against his side, and hope that the dark material and the fight will keep everyone distracted from the blood that he can feel soaking his clothes, as he leans to the side and fires.

His aim is off, something they can’t afford right now, and he’s grateful that it's Aramis whose with him, as the other man makes up for his wavering aim, as Athos sucks in a breath and buries the pain as deep as he can. It’s difficult, the ball is clearly still inside, grating every time he twists around the corner to fire, and he doesn’t want to think about how much damage he’s doing to himself. Of course, if they break through their admittedly meagre defence it won’t matter, and so he bites his lip, accepts the reloaded pistol with a grim smile and shoots. His side becomes harder to ignore as their ammunition runs low, their banter strained as they share looks across the doorway. The numbers are drawing a little more even now. Especially when there’s a commotion above them, and some of the men are drawn away, the shout of “Musketeers’ providing them both with a flicker of hope. But, the odds aren’t great, and even as he reminds Aramis to make his last shot count, he’s readying himself, knowing that it will come to blades soon enough and that he will need to fight, defeat coils tight in his chest.

One last shot that’s all they’ve got, but the commotion upstairs is growing louder and moving closer, and then there’s movement, Gallagher meeting his eyes for a fleeting second as he peers around the corner just in time to catch him slipping away. There’s a momentary relief as he realises, they’ve broken the momentum of the attack, but it’s short-lived because the other man is already out of sight and Athos can’t just let him go,

His side burns more fiercely than ever as he lunges to his feet, and for a terrifying moment, he thinks that his legs are going to fail him and send him sprawling in an undignified heap on the floor, and he hopes that no one notices when he leans on the wall for a second too long to steady himself. “Stay here,” he orders, relieved that the pain doesn’t bleed into his voice, although hopefully, the others are too distracted to notice the breathiness that he can’t entirely hide as he climbs over the low barricade and gives chase. His hand trembles as he draws his sword, and now that he’s moving, he can’t miss the blood trickling down his side, weaving a damp trail down his leg and no doubt leaving a trail in his wake.

*

Aramis isn’t happy about them splitting up, not that he’d had chance to say as much before Athos moved, leaving him tense and watchful as Athos disappeared out of sight. Leaving the three of them in the cellar, all of them holding their breath as the sounds of fighting above fade away and then there is the sound of rushing footsteps. He discards his gun, missing it’s comforting weight even as he draws his rapier and steps forward, a physical barrier between whoever is coming and the two women, trying not to look at the Queen for fear that she will see his worry.

He sees the uniform first, and he’s already relaxing as he recognises Treville.

“Athos! Aramis!”

“In here,” He calls as they turn the wrong way, and when they turn towards them, and he sees D’Artagnan and Porthos too, his shoulders slump, and his knees are weak with relief. The odds had been stacked against them from start to finish, and in the quiet moments, he had doubted that they were going to get out of this at all, let alone in one piece. And for all their banter, and the other man’s calm focus, he knew that Athos had felt the same. And it feels as though he can breathe for the first time as he lowers his weapon, sheathing it as Treville and the others rush towards them, almost laughing in the face of their relief.

“Everyone alive?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” He asks trying to sound offended but sounding more strained than anything, and he knows that Porthos at least catches the edge to his voice. The two of them sharing a look, as the Mother Superior steps up behind him, his relief reflected in her weathered features and then Anna is stepping forward with a grateful smile, and there’s a noticeable lightening of the atmosphere amongst the newcomers as they see her.

“Your Majesty, Thank God,” Treville murmurs, bowing to her as the other Musketeers follow suit, and if nothing else comes of this Aramis knows they’ve done a good thing here in protecting her, and he’s smiling when Treville looks up with a frown. “Where’s Athos?”

“He…” Aramis trailed off as he spied something he had missed before, stepping to the side of the doorway and pressing a hand to the wall that is damp and discoloured, and when he brings it away, his fingers are covered in blood, and there's a burst of alarm in the pit of his stomach. “Your Majesty, are you wounded?” He demands whirling to look at her ignoring he alarmed voices around him, and he’s almost relieved when she shakes her head, looking puzzled until she glimpses his hand and as one they glance at the Mother Superior who meets their gaze and shakes her head at the unasked question. There’s a curse on the tip of Aramis’ tongue, although he holds it back as he turns around showing the others his hand, as he all but snarls the answer to his own question. “Athos…”

**

Athos’ vision is blurring around the edges, and dark spots are dancing across his eyes as he weaves in and out of the narrow corridors. The more sensible part of his mind is ordering him to back and let others take care of this before he collapses and finds himself at the mercy of the man who vowed to kill him. He ignores it. If Gallagher escapes, then the Queen could be in danger in the future, and while the tide has turned in their favour this time, there is no guarantee that will happen a second time. So, he presses on and ignores the small voice that sounds remarkably like Aramis that tells him he needs to get his side seen too. _I’m not taking advice from a man who decided it was a good idea to sleep with the Queen, in a Convent of all places,_ he tells the voice in his mind.

It’s a surprise when he rounds the corner to find himself face to face with his prey, and he’s a second slow to lift his pistol and aim it, and he knows the delay and the minute tremor in his hand are noted. Sees the way Gallagher’s gaze flickers down to his side, spying the blood in an instance, and there’s triumph in his eyes even with his plan thwarted. “It seems that one of us will be keeping our promise today.” Athos ignores him and steps forward, willing his arms to hold up his weapons long enough to bring this to an end, or for the others to catch up with him as he can hear voices in the distance.

“Tell me who hired you, and I will spare you the hangman’s noose,” he orders, already knowing it is futile. This man is a soldier, and he has a code of honour for all that it frustrates him to admit it, and he’s unsurprised when the other man’s lip curls up in a smirk.

“What kind of Soldier would I be if I broke a confidence like that?”

“One that’s not ready to die yet,” Athos replied, the pain in his side seeming to make a mockery of his own words, and the other man knows it, glancing at his side, at his weapons, and at the hallway behind Athos through which distant voices are drawing closer. Athos imagines that he can hear Aramis and Porthos’ voice amongst them, but he can’t move, can’t let his attention waver for even a second as Gallagher’s hand shifts, moving towards his gun. “Don’t,” Athos warns, voice far softer than he’d intended, but he knows even before he speaks that it’s futile, that this ending had been set in stone the moment they had exchanged words outside the Covent. _It looks like we’ll both get to keep our word,_ he thinks as his finger tightens on the trigger just as Gallagher draws his own weapon. Athos is faster, and his head rings with the gunshot, breath ragged as he tries to move forward towards the other man who had crumpled back against the wall, still alive, weapons still within reach, although he’s focused on the bloody wound Athos had just inflicted.

He makes it half a step, before his legs give out on him, the pistol falling from his hand as he barely manages to brace himself on one knee, using his rapier to stop himself collapsing entirely. There’s a roaring in his ears, one that seems to move in time with the blood that he can feel rising from his wound, and he helplessly presses a hand to it, knowing that it’s too little too late. The dark spots are growing, spreading across his vision, until the world is bathed in shadow, the corridor and Gallagher reduced to indistinct blurs on the periphery of his vision, as he tries to breathe through the pain and dizziness. He senses more than hears, movement somewhere ahead of him, the rasp of material and metal, and he knows that he needs to move, that he needs to do something or he’s going to die here, but his body is no longer listening, and he closes his eyes and waits for it to end.

There’s a gunshot, but it’s accompanied by someone shouting his name, and when it isn’t accompanied by an answering burst of pain on his body, and he dimly registers the strangled noise and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground, he opens his eyes. A task that seems herculean at this point, and by the time he’s coaxed them open, and managed to focus enough to make out that the shadow looming in front of him is Aramis, the other man is crouching down.

“Athos!” It’s been a while since he had heard that particular blend of worry, fear and sheer exasperation, and despite everything his lips quirk. Torn between wanting to ask the other man what he was thinking leaving the Queen alone, and wanting to embrace him for not leaving him alone to die; instead, he does neither and makes a weak stab at humour to soften the worry in Aramis’ face.

“I really must commend you on your timing,” he says, or at least he thinks he does because he’s not sure if it’s his voice or his ears that aren’t working. Maybe it is both because there are hands on his shoulder now and he thinks he can make out Aramis’ mouth moving, but he can’t hear the words, and he stares blankly at him for a moment, aware that it’s not the only thing fading away on him. Even the pain, a constant through the battle is dulled and distant, and he feels almost disconnected from his side, even though he knows it’s still there, still throbbing and bleeding, his life leaking out of him in a rivulet of red.

He tries to say as much, to apologise, he’s not sure what he’s trying to say any more. He’s not even sure which way is up anymore, because he’s listing, slumping to the side, or what he thinks is the side and the hands aren’t on his shoulders anymore but are moving to try and lower him to the ground. There are more hands now, or at least he thinks there are, but he can’t make sense of it, and he lacks the energy to try, to even keep his eyes open as he finds himself being dragged under, and as he succumbs he imagines he hears more than one voice calling his name.


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis had thought that the arrival of the other Musketeers had spelt an end to the tension and fear that had been a constant companion, since the first attack on the Queen. The blood drying on his hands as they searched the corridors for Athos, told him otherwise, and he was torn between a desperate need to find him and deal with whatever injury he had chosen to hide, and tearing him a new one for concealing it. Not that he would have been able to do much as pressed as they had been, and part of him knew that was why Athos had hidden it, to keep them focused and fighting. There was also the fact that Athos was stubborn, and would not have told him anyway, and that was what had his bloody fists curling into a fist.

The gunshot when it comes is like thunder in the air, and Aramis knows that he’s not the only one who freezes, cold fingers of dread curling around his heart. _Athos._ Now, they have a direction, and he’s aware of the others at his heel as he breaks into a run, Porthos cursing and growling threats, and Aramis isn’t sure if they’re aimed at the men attacking them or Athos. D’Artagnan is quiet, but there’s naked fear on his face that Aramis doesn’t have time to address as they round a corner. Ducking through a narrow doorway just in time to witness Athos crumpling to his knees, and just enough to afford Aramis a glimpse of Gallagher bloodied and looking like he’s on death’s door lifting a trembling hand, aiming his pistol at Athos. At Athos who isn’t moving, head slumping forward as though unaware of the danger looming right in front of him.

“ATHOS!” His warning shout, probably too late anyway, is lost in the sharp retort of a gunshot and he feels the blood drain from his face, waiting for Athos to fall, to see his failure written across the ground in front of him. It takes him a moment to realise that Porthos is praising D’Artagnan’s aim, and a few seconds longer to see that Gallagher’s gun has fallen into his lap, blood running down his face from where their youngest’s shot had taken him straight through the forehead, before his body slumps, falls and is still on the ground. Dead.

_It could have been Athos…_

That thought cuts through his shock as cleanly and brutally as a sword, and he’s moving, almost forgetting about the others as he rushes to Athos, just in time to see the other man fighting to open his eyes. He’s barely upright at this point, and Aramis crouches, reaching to brace him just as Athos’ eyes flutter open, and for a moment, he’s barely there, gaze unfocused and threatening to creep past him, before Athos blinks and seems to register who he is if the relief in his expression is anything to go by. “Athos!” He wants to be relieved, he really does, but Athos is quivering beneath his touch, breathing too fast and ragged, pain written across his face, and it all bleeds into his voice. Worry and fear, because it had been far too close and might still be because now he can see the blood still flowing from the hole in Athos’ doublet, exasperation that Athos had hidden something so serious and then gone chasing after their assailant on his own.

Athos is visibly struggling to focus on him, but he seems to recognise the emotion in Aramis’ voice, because despite everything his lips quirk. A hint of a smile, that becomes a grimace and then shifts to something else, something darker and more terrifying, a flicker of fear or doubt as though Athos too knows that it had been too close, that it might still be too late. “I really must commend you on your timing,” Athos’ voice is too soft, barely a whisper of sound that Aramis only catches because he’s right there, the attempted drawl a confused slurring of words that it takes him a moment to decipher.

“And I could commend you on getting this far when…” Aramis’ retort loses steam and lapses into silence as he realises that Athos’ focus is gone, the awareness that had been there seconds before fading as the other man stares at him. “Athos?” He tries again, voice softer, soothing as his hands move to Athos shoulders, squeezing lightly to try and bring the now wandering gaze back to himself. “Athos, I need you to stay awake.” He makes it an order, knowing that works better with Athos than anything else, even though he wants to soothe and comfort, and he can see Athos trying, but his eyes are closing, and his lips are moving soundlessly, his voice having fled him even as consciousness is abandoning him too. “Athos!” Urgent now, but he knows it’s not enough, sees Athos’ eyes flutter shut just before he lists and slumps, forcing Aramis to adjust his grip, lowering him to the ground as gently as possible. “Help me!” He begs, and there are hurried footsteps, and Porthos and D’Artagnan are at his side, Porthos moving to help settle Athos on the ground, cushioning his head in his lap.

“Athos,” D’Artagnan calls, unable to keep the fear from his voice. For a moment it seems like that might be the lifeline they need because Athos’ eyes open, just a sliver, but seconds later they’re closed again, and even as they call for him, they see his face go lax, haunted by the ghost of his pain.

“Is he…?” Porthos can’t finish the question, but Aramis is already moving, trusting him to hold Athos as he places a hand in front of Athos’ mouth.

“He’s alive,” he murmurs, feeling unsteady breath against his hand. “I might kill him later though,” he adds already turning to examine Athos’ side, the humour falling flat as his expression darkens as he realises that the ground is already damp with their friend’s blood. “Hold him,” he warns, as he lifts Athos slightly, hoping and praying…and cursing when he finds no matching wound at the back. Athos doesn’t stir at the movement, or when Aramis presses his fingers through the tear in his clothes to examine the wound. “The ball is still inside,” he mutters and hears his curses repeated.

“But, he’ll be all right?” D’Artagnan demands, and Aramis hesitates despite himself. Part of him wants to say yes, and not just because of the faith that glimmers in the younger man’s eyes, trusting him to be able to fix this, but because the idea that he can’t… that Athos could…is unacceptable. But there’s so much blood, and his mind is racing. Wondering how much damage the ball had done, before and after Athos had decided to chase Gallagher through the tunnel, weighing that up with what he knows of such injuries.

“Aramis?” It’s only when Porthos prompts him, voice tense, that he realises that he had stayed silent a little too long and he knows that the smile he forces onto his face is too forced, too close to a grimace to be reassuring.

“It’s Athos,” he says, and his voice is steady, even as his hand's quake as he pulls them back. “He’s too stubborn to be anything but all right, but we need to get him up to the infirmary.” _And pray to God that it’s not too late, that his stubbornness is stronger than anything else,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say aloud because D’Artagnan is pale now and unconvinced. Porthos’ jaw is clenched, eyes dark with the dread that Aramis can’t let him give voice to as their eyes meet for a moment.

_By the Grace of God…please…_

**

The Convent infirmary is light and airy, especially after the tunnels, and it smells of herbs, the shelves at the end tidy and well-stocked. Aramis would have liked the time to examine it more, to share his relief that he does not have to do this in the middle of nowhere which is so often the case when a mission goes wrong. Still, there’s no time, and he’s brusque as directs Porthos and D’Artagnan to settle Athos on the bed and to carefully strip away the bloodstained clothing.

The Mother Superior had caught up with them and lead them here, and she and one of the Sisters are already gathering the tools before Aramis can ask, and he nods, words failing him at the moment because Athos is too quiet and too still. Treville and the Queen are there too, hovering by the door, and he can’t look at them. Can’t look at her, because Athos is dying in front of him, had been from the moment they retreated into that cellar and he hadn’t even realised. He’s pulled out of his recrimination by a gentle touch on his arm, and he blinks to find the Mother Superior is beside him, studying him with a softer expression that he had seen from her so far. Still, he thinks he might understand when she looks to Athos on the bed and sees the worry that echoes his because he knows that she and Athos had found a mutual understanding for being so different. “We have some experience with wounds like this if you would like us to tend to him.”

It’s a kind offer, and he knows that she’s noticed the quiver in his arms, but he shakes head and manages a strained smile. “No, thank you,” he swallowed, and stepped towards the bed, realising that they’ve already laid out everything he will need as she follows on his heels. “I… I can do it.” What had once been a necessity, has become a habit, and the thought of anyone else tending to Athos makes him uneasy, but the feeling is stronger than usual, guilt for having missed the injury mixing in with everything else. He needs to be the one to fix this, and he takes a deep breath, willing his hands to stillness even as he reaches Athos’ bedside and feels a fresh surge of dismay as he realises Athos is all but as pale as the sheets he is laid out on.

“You must hold him still no matter what,” he orders, looking to Porthos and D’Artagnan who nod and move. The latter holding Athos’ legs and Porthos moving to brace Athos’ shoulders, looking relieved to be able to do something, and Aramis relaxes just a little. This at least is familiar, and there is no one he can trust more to help him with Athos’ care, and he hopes that some part of Athos knows they are there so that he will fight to stay with them. “If I don’t get this out…” He doesn’t finish that sentence; he doesn’t need to. They’ve all seen what can happen to wounds that are left untreated.

Athos has even been a prime example of that more than once, due to his stubborn insistence on pushing through with a mission even when he’s at risk of bleeding out in front of their very eyes. It is not recklessness exactly, because of all of them he is the one most likely to calculate all the risks of a given situation and go with the one least likely to end up with them all dead. At one point Aramis had feared that it was a lack of self-care and that Athos just didn’t care about his own survival, but while he was sure there had been moments where that was true, particularly when the call of the bottle had been stronger, he had long since concluded that wasn’t the case. Part of it was stubbornness, and more than once, one or all of them have bemoaned Athos’ stubbornness, but it was also a sense of duty. Athos more than any of them was a slave to duty, honour bound to it, and more, and willing to do whatever it took to complete the mission.

“Athos,” he murmured now, cusping his friend’s cheek for a moment, finger brushing along the edge of the cut that had been inflicted by shrapnel from the shots hitting the wall. It is nothing, not even enough to need stitches although it’s painted the side of Athos’ face red, but it’s another reminder of how badly things had gone, and he itches to be able to make it disappear too. Instead, he searches for any sign that his voice has registered, but Athos is still, breath rasping and too quick, oblivious to their presence and what is about to happen. “Brace yourselves,” he warns because he knows how quickly that can change in the face of the kind of pain that he will be causing.

The wound is far enough to the side that it should have missed anything vital, but he won’t know for sure until he can locate the ball, and he tries not to think of it moving deeper, of the damage that Athos in his thrice-damned stubbornness might have done to himself. Someone and he suspects Porthos who has assisted him many times, has wiped away the worst of the blood and dirt, leaving pale skin streaked with it. There is more sluggishly oozing from the wound, but it's clear enough for him to see at least a handful of threads trapped in the wound, and he bites back a curse and instead looks at the Nuns who are hovering nearby, ready to help. “There is fabric in the wound, I need something…” He doesn’t have chance to finish before the Sister is bustling off to the shelves with a purpose and he falls silent, trusting that they will know what they are looking for, as his fingers nervously stroke still damp skin.

_Athos…_

She returns swiftly with a greenish solution that smells of alcohol and herbs, which he accepts with a whispered thanks, before squaring his shoulders and praying that Athos won’t rouse. He doesn’t as the solution is applied, or when as gently as possible Aramis starts to remove the threads of fabric – now red, although before they had been other colours from the wound with tweezers, laying each one aside. He’s thorough, even though he is aware of time slipping away like sand in an hourglass, like the blood that still trickles from Athos’ wound, but he can’t afford to be careless now. Athos can’t afford him to be careless, and so he forces himself to focus and move slowly and steadily.

Porthos is talking to Athos, reminding him of happier times and escapades even though Athos is deaf to his words. D’Artagnan is silent but focused, and Aramis is relieved that he’s used to being watched as he works because the younger man’s gaze is almost intimidating in its intensity. He can hear voices behind him, Treville talking to the others that had arrived to help, no doubt dealing with the clean-up of the fight. He hears the Queen’s voice too, but the words escape him, his attention never wavering from Athos. From Athos who had seen them that morning. Who had demanded to know what he was thinking, but had never once threatened to talk about it, and hadn’t treated either of them any differently. It adds an extra nuance to his guilt as he works, gnawing at his thoughts, his heart. _Athos…_

Only when he’s certain that he’s got every thread and speck of dirt that he could see, does he turn his attention to the much bigger threat, and his gaze darts to Athos’ face as he delves into the wound in search of the ball that lingers inside. Athos’ forehead furrows at the first intrusion, breath hitching on something that could have been a sob, and he’s relieved when Porthos automatically tightens his hold, recognising the sign, but Athos doesn’t stir beyond that.

The ball is deeper than he liked – not that he liked anything about this situation – and he’s not sure if that’s from the original injury, or Athos’ movements after being shot, most likely it’s a combination of the two. He’s practising the lecture he intends to deliver once Athos is awake and alert enough to understand it when he finally feels it beneath his fingertips. “I’ve…”

That, of course, was the moment that Athos came alive beneath him.

“Athos!” Aramis cursed as his fingers lost the ball, flinching back before he can cause any more harm. “Hold him still, or I’ll end up doing more damage,” he barked at Porthos who was struggling to contain Athos even in his weakened state, just as worried as Aramis was about hurting him. Athos didn’t have that reservation, unaware that they were trying to help not hurt, as he tried to free himself from the restrictive hold they had on him, agonised noises that broke Aramis’ heart to hear rising in the back of his throat, words beyond him as he clawed at Porthos’ arm. “Athos, you need to be still,” he called, leaning forward, trying to catch the other man’s attention, but Athos’ eyes were closed, and he was blind and deaf to anything but the fact that everything hurt and he couldn’t move. “Athos, you…”

“Athos!” Treville was there, carefully stepping between Porthos and D’Artagnan who are still straining to hold Athos in place, and to anyone who didn’t know the man he would have sounded cold, and disapproving, the perfect tone of command for an unruly Musketeer. Aramis can see the way his eyes flicker to where he is working, the blood leaking out beneath his searching fingers and the worry that creases the corners of his eyes, but apparently Athos is fooled because he has stilled, eyes creeping open just enough for them to glimpse the unfocused gaze as he tries to seek out the Captain, a sound that could have been a plea or an apology rising between parted lips. “Quiet,” Treville is softer now, reaching out rest a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “Let Aramis work now.” Soothing, but commanding and Aramis offers his friend a strained nod – unable to summon even a quirk of his lips – as Athos’ eyes drift to him. Rewarded by a hint of something close to understanding as Athos subsides, growing limp beneath their restraining hands. An underlying tension in his body betraying the fact that he is still conscious for the time being, and Aramis hesitates before resuming, eyes darting between his searching fingers and Athos’ face.

It is clear that Athos is hurting, feeling every movement Aramis makes in the wound as he tries to locate the ball again. The agony of it is etched so deeply into his face that Aramis finds it hard to imagine he will ever be free of it, even as the medic in him knows that if he pulls through that pain will fade away. _I just need too…_ His fingers brush metal, and his breath catches. He doesn’t speak, but he can feel every eye in the room on him, as he reaches for the tweezers, praying that Athos can hold still just a little longer, wishing that he had the voice to soothe him, to tell him that it’s almost over. It takes a few attempts to get the tweezers around the ball, and Athos is keening, a noise that is somehow worse than the broken noises from seconds ago, but he isn’t moving, isn’t fighting them even as Porthos tightens his grip just in case. “I’ve got it,” Aramis whispers when he finally feels the ball come free. Forcing his hands to hold steady as he draws it out of the wound and holds it up for a second against the light and stares at it, unable to believe how something so small could come so close to claiming something so valuable.

He sets it aside with a shake of his head and takes a deep breath. “It’s out Athos,” he murmurs eventually, reaching out to pat the other man’s shoulder, unsurprised when Athos trembles and does not reply. He wants to say that the worst is over, but infection is a risk, and Athos has lost a lot of blood already, and so he is silent, pats his shoulder once more and focuses on the wound once more. Hating himself as Athos shakes and keens, as he explores the wound again, searching for anything else that doesn’t belong, checking for deeper damage, and thanking God when there is nothing immediately discernible. “I just need to stitch it now,” he announces, and there is an inaudible sigh of relief in the room, even Treville closing his eyes for a moment. Aramis wonders if Athos is aware of their worry, their relief, their unification in the need to see him recover.

_Probably not,_ he muses, as he threads the needle. His hands are steadier now, because this is familiar ground, and it is a step closer to fixing this mess, to healing Athos. It doesn’t stop him from praying as he sets to work, for infection to stay away, for a swift recovery, for Athos forgiveness for causing him further pain even in the path of healing him. The rest of the room and watchful eyes melt away as he works, utterly focused on each and every stitch, trying to make it as small and neat as possible, wanting to banish all evidence of this near miss. It will scar, there is little he can do about that, but he can minimise it.

By the time he’s done, Athos has succumbed to unconsciousness again, a blessed relief as the pain will linger far longer than the ball had, and Aramis feels wrung out and exhausted as he finally cuts the end of the thread, and heaves a sigh.

“He…” The words escape him, the reassurance he had wanted to give voice to lost as he stares down at Athos and trembles as the realisation of close it had been, and how close that precipice lingers, hits him anew and there are hands on his arms, gently pulling him away. That brings him back to himself, panic clouding his mind for a moment until his vision fills with the Mother Superior’s stern expression. It takes him a moment to realise that she’s talking, offering to clean up and bandage the wound, a chance for him to catch himself and he opens his mouth to refuse, to protest, but there’s something in her expression that silences him.

“Let us do this much.” It’s as much a command as a plea, and this time Aramis is unable to argue. Allowing the woman to move him out of the way and nodding when the others look to him before releasing Athos and giving her and the Sister room to work, and he doesn’t protest when Porthos moves to him. Taking the needle and thread from him and setting it down, and urging him across to a bowl of water that had been provided, talking him into cleaning his hands, and soon the water is stained with Athos’ blood instead of his hands.

“Will he survive?” It’s Treville, expression unreadable who breaks the silence that has fallen over the room, broken only by Athos’ ragged breathing, his eyes on the wounded Musketeer as the Nuns finish their ministrations and clear up the mess that Aramis had left behind. It’s a plea for reassurance, and a demand for an honest answer and Aramis can’t give him the first and doesn’t want to provide the second. Instead, he shares a look with the Mother Superior who is stood beside Athos, a hand on his forehead. There is too much understanding in that gaze, too much weight because they know that Athos is on a knifepoint and that he could fall either way, and he is not sure which of them speaks first.

“By the Grace of God…”


End file.
